THE WATER GATE.
THE WATER GATE.
THE WATER GATE.
us, was occupied by the Czar Peter on his visit to London. Its various chambers are now given over to the Charity Organisation Society, to a maternity association, etc.; but on going up the stairs we see palpable vestiges of the magnificence of the place, which must have had some connection with old York House. For we find ourselves in a spacious and imposing drawing-room, of which the entire walls are oak as well as the flooring, while the two elegant doorways are embroidered round with a rich carved flowering border. But it is the unique ceiling that will excite admiration, consisting of a thick wheel-like border, filled in with the boldest and richest stucco-work, presenting solidly wrought roses and leaves. This encircles a painted allegorical piece, but so grimed with dirt that the subject cannot be clearly seen. It is but little damaged. One could fancy this room restored and furnished, and the rude Muscovite seated in congenial proximity to his favourite river. The side of the house that looks over the Embankment, though covered with whitewash, displays a tall elegant central window of a decorated kind, showing that the whole must in its best days have been of a spacious and imposing character. The view from this window, as indeed it is from all these corner houses giving on the river, is charming. On the opposite side of the street, a few doors higher up, is another old mansion of some pretence—also given over to offices—and noteworthy for the twenty or so grotesque heads, one of which is set over every window. It is hard to account for this odd form of adornment, unless it came with the Dutch. They are found in many quarters of London, some putting their tongues out to the spectators, others crying, laughing, etc. This mansion is believed to have been the one occupied by Mr. Secretary Pepys, and so we look at it with interest.
But this does not exhaust the associations of the Adelphi. There we lately saw the “house breakers” hard at work levelling what has some very pathetic associations with the early life of Dickens. For many generations now, a dilapidated miscellany of shanties has been visible from the terrace; a shed, outhouses, a small mean-storied thing in the last stage of decay, with an ancient cart or two lying up in ordinary. Across the wall ran a faded half-effaced legend, in what were once gold letters on a blue ground:—
THE FOX-UNDER-THE-HILL.HOARE & CO’S ENTIRE,AND BRILLIANT ALES.
THE FOX-UNDER-THE-HILL.HOARE & CO’S ENTIRE,AND BRILLIANT ALES.
It was hard to conceive of anything “brilliant” in such a place, save the little half-starved boy employed at the blacking factory in Hungerford Market, who used to make his way thither. “One of his favourite localities,” says Mr. Forster, “was a little public-house by the water-side called the Fox-under-the-Hill, approached by an underground passage, which we once missed in looking for it together; and he had a vision, which he has mentioned in ‘Copperfield,’ of sitting eating something on a bench outside and looking at some coal-heavers dancing.” This memorial has for years borne a dismal forlorn aspect, very suggestive of this despairing season in Dickens’s childhood.Within these few months, therefore, it was like losing a friend to find the “brilliant ales” gone and the house all but levelled.
On the higher level of the terrace, facing the Strand, are some gloomy-looking hotels, of many windows, “The Caledonian” and “The Adelphi.” There is here the air of dingy old fashion, so well suited to Pickwick, and we know that this Adelphi Hostelry is the “Osborne’s Hotel,” where Wardle and his daughter Emily put up, and where the droll scene occurred of Mr. Snodgrass being secreted during dinner—the fat boy running “something sharp into Mr. Pickwick’s leg” to attract his attention. As we look up at the first-floor windows the scene rises before us, and the whole appears in harmony with the humours of Pickwick. Most natural is it, too, that the Wardles should put up at such a house, for the dingy furniture, etc., all seems to belong to that era.
Here in the Adelphi we come upon a handsome building which houses the useful Society of Arts, its energetic Secretary, Sir H. Trueman Wood, and Librarian, Mr. Wheatley, so well skilled in London lore.
The story of the luckless Barry is most pathetic, and as we sit in the fine meeting-room of the Society and look up at the painter’s crowds of animated figures that line the walls, it comes back on us with a strange vividness. He had something akin to the character and erratic temper of Haydon, the same despairing sense of talent neglected and put aside; the same struggle with the Academy, and a quarrelsome eccentricity. A difference, however, between the two men was that Barry’s work on the walls speaks for him and proclaims his fine academic culture, his grace and poetry in the beautiful, well-designed figures and groups, and the refined transparent colouring; with which we have to contrast the heavily-painted, earthy-looking portraits of the Sovereign and her Consort, which by some strange lack of congruity have been thrust into this classical company. One can conceive, however, the difficulties of dealing with a man who insisted on representing the death of Wolfe with a number of perfectly nude figures standing round, and who in his latter days of penury and neglect, when asked out to dine, insisted on tendering two shillings to his host in payment of the meal! These fine pictures cover a canvas that spreads round the room. To obtain the fame and expanse of canvas allowed by such an undertaking, the artist offered to do the whole work gratis; not, however, it may be supposed, that when the work was done the Society left him without remuneration. As the result proved, he was fairly well paid for his labours. The variety, the fine workmanship displayed, the grace of the figures, are extraordinary when we consider it was the work of one man.
Having thus concluded our exploration of the Adelphi, we may fairly ask the Londoner who passes through the Strand a dozen times in the day, could he be prepared to find so much that is novel in this familiar district?
ENTRANCE TO THE ROMAN BATH.
ENTRANCE TO THE ROMAN BATH.
ENTRANCE TO THE ROMAN BATH.
BUT in this exceedingly modern Strand, where we are so eager to clear off the only bit of antiquity left us—the graceful church of St. Mary—what Monkbarns would think of looking for his “ancient Romans,” or anything connected with them? It is an astonishing surprise to find that we have only to turn out of the Strand hard by St. Mary’s Church, and see staring at us an invitation to come and look at a genuine, recognizeable, Roman work, in sound condition. We pass under a sort of archway, down a steep paved lane, lined with low white-washed walls and a few old houses, with a glimpse of the river beyond, and see the board before us, with directions “☛To the Old Roman Bath.” On the left rises the towering wall of the New Strand Theatre (and it is wonderful they did not sweep the Romans away), and we come to a sort of shanty of a house such as we would see in a village, white-washed, a languid green creeper overgrowing it, which imparts quite a rural look. At the iron gate we are met by a showman of the place, who does his work intelligently enough, and communicates such details as he has picked up. Opening a door to the left and descending a few steps, he suddenly plunges us into a low cellar-like chamber. As we grow accustomed to the dim light, there is a sense of astonishment on looking round and finding ourselves before a genuine unmistakeable bath. It is a fairly sized, vaulted chamber, solidly built, with curved ceiling lit by a little semi-circular window perched high on the left. The bath is in the centre, rounded at one end and square at the other. On the opposite side are two or three stairs or tiers, and where it touches the water we can recognize the true fashion of Roman workmanship—the thin tiles of cheerful red, hard as iron, and the imperishable cement which has stood and resisted the water for centuries. The stately Roman look of the whole, even the massive grace in decay, is extraordinary. Extraordinary too is the volume of water, the purest and most delicious in London, which pours up at the rate of some ten tons a minute, and isrecherchéin the district, being sold at a fixed tariff. It is remarkable that this interestingrelic, rare in any capital, should be so little known and so little esteemed. It is highly desirable that the bath should be secured to the City without loss of time, and its destruction thereby saved.
On the other side is another bath, known as “Lord Essex’s” plunge-bath, which has its interest also. It is elegantly designed, with rather original little steps for descending into the water. The bath is of a sort of buff-coloured marble, and is known to have been made, and perhaps used, by the Earl of Essex some three centuries ago. Our cicerone goes so far as to affirm that the Good Queen Bess was fond of taking an occasional “dip” here, and rather illogically points to a sort of darkened window or passage in proof of his assertion. But without introducing this august lady at all, or the Earl, the bath is sufficiently old and interesting to stand, if we may use the metaphor, on its own bottom. Holywell Street, close by, is evidence of the traditions of a holy source in the neighbourhood, and Essex Street is not far away. But how many who pass through the Strand daily for years have ever been to see the Old Roman Bath?
“Within memory of man,” says Mr. Roach Smith, “huge masses, with trees growing upon them, were to be seen at London Wall opposite to what is now Finsbury Circus. They were probably—like what may still be seen opposite Sion College, and in various places with warehouses, in obscure courts and in cellars, near Cripplegate—the core of the Roman wall denuded of the facing stones. In 1852 was discovered a portion which the Corporation had given to the Church Building Society to be pulled down, but it was happily saved; it had been preserved so long owing to a buttress built against it in the Middle Ages. But though saved, owing to earnest representations, it was built into a stable.”
There are indeed scarcely any of the associations of London more impressive or overpowering than its connection with the Roman Empire. There is of course the common vague and popular idea of “Roman remains” found all over England, and the “local museum” can generally boast some well-grimed vessels of various shapes, which are labelled “Roman.” There is often, too, the “incised” slab on which may be deciphered some “Roman” lettering, as ambiguous as that discovered by Mr. Pickwick. Nothing, however, is so astonishing to the casual spectator as the abundance and splendour of the real Roman remains found in London. The Guildhall Museum, where they are stored in quantities, might be a portion of the Vatican Museum. The Roman glass and pottery alone would fill a warehouse, and their variety and beautiful shapes and materials are perfectly astonishing. We say nothing of the tablets and statues, etc., and fragments of brickwork found about Blackfriars, but what really recalls the Roman domination in the most forcible and practical way is the superb Roman pavement, about 14 feet long, with its round end, which must have covered a goodly sized vestibule. The
brightness, the brilliancy of the colours, the freshness of the whole, the boldness of the treatment, excite wonder, and call up before us the conquerors who walked over it in this actual London of ours, with its cabs and policemen and costermongers, which presents a nation so opposed to every idea of Rome. The Guildhall Museum, viewed in this light, offers a real surprise when it is thought that the inanimate objects here found—hundreds of bronze implements for domestic use, combs, looking-glasses, cups, bottles, lamps, bowls, in profusion of pattern, all were the work of this fallen and departed race.
The most impressive of these memorials is the old Roman Wall, still to be seen close to Cripplegate Church, and which affects the spectator much as would one of the fragments to be found in Rome. There it rises up before us, in the street called “London Wall,” a stretch of about 50 yards long, and lofty, now made to do duty, which really secures its preservation, by being built into houses. This seems to add to the effect. A narrow strip of garden runs in front, so as to separate it from the pavement. In the curious diversity of colour and detail which the Roman wall always presents, owing to the ripe mellow tint of the brick, which contrasts with the white of the rocky cement, and to the general dappled tone, there is found a variety and air of suggestion. The whole seems to be caked and crusted into a rocky mass, which still speaks of the imperishable, enduring character of the conquerors. It does credit to the City Fathers that they have preserved this relic, which is really a striking ornament. Not far off is a curious fragment of a tower, of the same character, and which rises with odd effect in the busy City. It is indeed most interesting to find that the antiquaries can follow the course of the wall with almost perfect certainty by fragments of this kind which have shown themselves at intervals. Some years ago, passing by the Broadway on Ludgate Hill, I found an intelligent crowd gathered about some houses which were being pulled down; a portion of the old Roman wall was being removed, and all were staring with an absorbed interest, while certain persons learned on the subject, or affecting to be so, discoursed to the rest.
The little hilly Southampton Street, Strand, is interesting, leading as it does into Covent Garden Market. Near the top is No. 27, Garrick’s old house, where he lived so many years until he became “grand” and moved to a stately mansion on the Adelphi Terrace. It is said that this change injured his health, the terrace being exposed and unsheltered, the old house being “snug and quiet.” This became an hotel, “Eastey’s,” and later was dressed up with plaster mouldings. It is now in the possession of a business firm. With excellent feeling and good taste a handsome shield with Garrick’s arms has been set up in the hall, which recalls the fact of its having been Garrick’s residence, that in that parlour he had read Othello to a number of his friends, and in the drawing-rooms had given a party, during which Goldsmith arrived, wishing to borrow a guinea, but had goneaway without having had courage to do so. The doorway which separates the back and front parlours is an elegant piece of work, most gracefully carved and moulded. I never pass by the house without looking in and recalling the pleasant scene described by Tate Williams when he came to exhibit his talents to the actor; and when he noticed this very door moving softly, and found that Mrs. Garrick was listening unseen to his mimicries.
The destroyers have lately been very busy in Covent Garden, where there have been wholesale clearances. Gone now is an entire block in Bow Street, where stood the old police court, the foundations of which the blind magistrate Fielding had laid, after his own house had been burnt to the ground by the Gordon rioters. This, however, could be spared; but not the Piazza in the market behind, Inigo Jones’s work. This is literally being nibbled away. Some years ago was razed the section where the old “Hummums” stood—a house known to Johnson, who used to relate a curious ghost story associated with it. A new, fresh, and gaudy “Hummums” has taken its place, with much unpicturesque iron sheds for the market. At the corner was the old “Rockley’s,” described by Mr. Sala nearly thirty years ago, a house of call for actors and Bohemians. There is now a new Rockley’s. Last year another portion of the Piazza—that behind Bow Street—was levelled, and with it that quaint specimen of the old London hotel, the Bedford, with its coffee-room, curved old-fashioned windows, entresols, bar, etc., to say nothing of its air of snugness and comfort. A few years ago another section, the one that touches “the old Evans’s,” or Cave of Harmony, was taken down, but was rebuilt. Thus out of the four sections there is now left to us but one, whose grace and proportions all amateurs must admire. It is said that Inigo Jones intended to imitate the Piazzas he had seen in Italy; and it will be noted how fine is the proportion of this fragment, and what an air of spaciousness he has imparted to it. The line of the arches, the intersections in the ceilings, the general gaiety of the whole are extraordinary; and to be the more remarked when we turn to the rebuilt portion, which seems narrow, over-grown, too tall for its width, and generally dismal.
No one looking at St. Paul’s, Covent Garden—this “Barn Church”—would believe that it is the most complete specimen of the Tuscan order of architecture known, for no ancient building of the kind exists in Italy or elsewhere. The extraordinary depth of its porch, the projection of its eaves, and the general rudeness and simplicity of its details have always obtained praise. Ralph, in the last century, declared it to be “one of the most perfect pieces of architecture that the art of man can produce.” Walpole, however, pronounced it to be a complete failure.
It must be confessed it looks ungainly enough. The truth is, as designed by Inigo, and in its original state, it was a finely-conceived structure.
COVENT GARDEN.
COVENT GARDEN.
COVENT GARDEN.
The architect wished to present a purely Doric building; though some maintained it was of a “barn-like order,” the pediment and pillars are impressive from their boldness and deep shadows. It has lately undergone an odd process of restoration, or rather transformation. The whole of the stone casing has been removed, and a flaming brick one substituted. Few edifices have been more vilified than this; and it must be confessed it is ugly enough. But it has been sadly mauled and outraged. The original building was burned, and the present one is a sort of replica with alterations. Passing by it, I have paused again and again, seeking to discover what was the cause of the apparent failure, and what a man of such eminence could have had in view in conceiving so bald, rude even, and unattractive a building. At last I discovered the secret. It was not he—as might be expected—but the fires, and what was as bad as the fires, the restorers and alterers, that were responsible. It should be remembered, too, that this is thebackof his building, the front being really stately and imposing enough, could there be a fair open view of it obtained. This back presented a deeply-embayed porch, the foot-way running in front; but to gain space for the market, arches were cut in the flanking walls, and the foot passengers were made to pass through the porch. There was the secret. The walls being continued to the line of pillars, a shadowy depth or recess was gained, in keeping with the heavy cornice, and so much was added to the length of the church. In old prints we can see this effect. The pathway ranin frontof the pillars, instead of behind them, as is now the case. In short, it was then a porch instead of a colonnade, which it is now. This shows how a mere touch, as it were, will destroy the whole character of a work. Further, the whole used to be garnished with some very piquant lanterns, vanes, sun-dials, etc., which imparted a lightness and finish. The restorers have not thought fit to replace these. The church and its churchyard cover a large inclosure in the block between the market and Bedford Street, and can be seen through gratings opening into the four streets that lie round it. It ought to be thrown open and laid out as a garden. Few even suspect its existence. In this great churchyard lie some of the most interesting notabilities who haunted Covent Garden in their life—actors chiefly—such as old Macklin.
Mr. Thackeray has a picture of Covent Garden which admirably conveys the impression left by the place. “The two great national theatres on one side, a churchyard full of mouldy but undying celebrities on the other; a fringe of houses studded in every part with anecdote or history; an arcade often more gloomy or deserted than a cathedral aisle, a rich cluster of brown old taverns—one of them filled with the counterfeit presentments of actors long since silent: a something in the air which breathes of old books, old painters, and old authors, a place beyond allother places one would choose in which to hear the chimes at midnight—a crystal palace—which presses timidly from a corner upon many things of the past: a withered bank that has been sucked dry; a squat building with columns and chapel-looking fronts, which always stand knee-deep in baskets, flowers, and scattered vegetables; a population that never seems to sleep, and that does all in its power to prevent others sleeping: a place where the very latest suppers and heartiest breakfasts jostle each other over the footways.” It is so long since this picture was done, that the strokes are altered and the details scarcely recognizable. But the tone is still the same. The old stately-looking building at the corner of the Piazza was once the town house or palace of a nobleman, and has been often engraved. More interesting, however, is it to think of it as the “Cave of Harmony,” once directed by the well-known “Paddy Green.” It was then the earliest type of Music Hall, where sober and serious glees were sung by choir boys, while the audience consumed kidneys and chops and baked potatoes, washed down by stout. This combination has passed away, and supping to music is no longer in vogue. The place was hung round with a vast number of curious theatrical portraits, old and modern, some of merit, while Paddy himself, red of face, walked about and conversed with the guests. When he saw anyone waiting or apparently neglected, he interposed with friendly courteous excuses, summoned waiters, and remedied the oversight. To the casual visitor to town this was altogether a novel and curious entertainment. Later it became the Falstaff Club, which went the way of ephemeral clubs. It is now the New Club.
Close as this district is to the Strand—and it is within a stone’s throw—it has a charm of old fashion that is extraordinary. Unhappily the devouring “Market” is rapidly absorbing the whole. Two entire sides have been swept away to find room for carts and vegetables. The eminent ground landlord seems insatiable in this respect; though it must be said that it is difficult, if not impossible, to resist the pressing advances of the dealers. It is said that a small space or coign of vantage is let three times over to successive tenants in the course of the twenty-four hours. The old Bow Street Court, and the buildings beside it, have been drawn in and swallowed up; the Floral Hall, erst a concert room, is now converted into a market. The lease of Drury Lane Theatre, close by, will run out in a few years, and it is rumoured will yield itself up to the inexorable market. This, as I said, is but the pressure of circumstances. “Facts are stubborn,” but the force of trade is irresistible.
We often lament the destruction of old houses with traditions, and the present writer has often joined in such jeremiads. But here is the test. Some one of moderate income, as most persons are, is the proprietor of some sacredly antique monument,—let us say Fairfax House at Brixton, standing inits “fayre grounds.” Presently the district has come into request; the speculative builder is about, and by-and-by a heavy, substantial sum that would yield an annuity is offered for the whole. The æsthetic proprietor cannot resist, for he will rationally argue, that if he decline, he will be paying an amount equal to the annuity he declines for the pleasure of retaining his old monument. Notwithstanding this process of unceasing destruction there is much left to interest, and the old tone of the place remains: as Mr. Hare points out, even the very names of the streets surrounding it, often carelessly and familiarly pronounced, have a suggestive significance.
Indeed, the London traveller, or contemplative man, whether promenading or gazing listlessly from his “knife-board” as he frets against the stagnant progress of his vehicle, may furnish himself with plenty of entertainment by speculating on the names of the streets through which he passes. The whole life of the great city could be traced by the aid of its street names. Thus, Fleet Street and Holborn were called after two rivers which crossed those thoroughfares, the Fleet and the Bourne; the Fleet also giving its name to the ill-omened prison. The modern christening of streets is rather of a formal, artificial kind, and has not the spontaneous natural character of the older names, which were given as a matter of convenience by the inhabitants of the locality. The origin of the familiar Piccadilly has been hotly debated; and a plausible theory has been offered—that one Higgins, a haberdasher, had invented a sort of spiked ruff, suggesting the “piccadille,” or lance, and out of this he made a fortune, which he invested in houses along the famous thoroughfare—then a rural lane. The Adelphi quarter was so named by the “Brothers” Adam, architects; to whom London also owes the Adelphi Terrace, Portland Place, Fitzroy Square, Stratford Place, Finsbury Square, and other buildings. John, Robert, and Adam Streets, as we have seen, recall their names. Close by we find George, Villiers, Duke, and Buckingham Streets, betokening that all this was the property of Charles II.’s favourite. On the other side of the Strand there are Charles, Henrietta, and York Streets; and it is unlikely that it ever occurs to the market gardener’s mind, or even to the intelligent publishers who flourish there, that these are the names of the hapless Charles I., his Queen, and brother. A vast number of streets take their names from territorial landlords—such as Bedford, Oxford, Essex, Arundel, and others. A bit of family history is illustrated by various small streets contiguous to the Strand. Thus, one of the Bedford family married Catherine, heiress of Brydges, Lord Chandos, and later, Lord Tavistock married a daughter of Lord Southampton. These alliances are now recalled by Catherine, Chandos, Tavistock, and Southampton Streets. Bow, with its bells and church, is said to be derived from the Norman arches in the crypt; and Bow Street from its bent shape. FetterLane was the street of beggars or “Fewters.” Pentonville has a plain and unsuspected origin, being named after a certain Mr. Henry Penton, M.P., who flourished in the present century. King’s Cross is another delusion; for, while we expect venerable associations akin to the Eleanor Cross, we are shocked to learn that here stood a poor effigy of George IV., long since removed. Lombard Street, of course, was a compliment to the banking natives of Lombardy; and Threadneedle Street was Three Needle Street, the Merchant Taylors’ Company being located there. Bunhill Fields, the great graveyard, was really Bone Hill Fields, and Houndsditch a ditch into which dead dogs were often cast. The Minories was originally the Minorites, an order of Poor Clares so named; and Mincing Lane was similarly distorted from the Minchin nuns, who had their convent at St. Helen’s, Bishopsgate. Goswell Street was God’s Well. At Tokenhouse Yard and thereabouts tokens used to be made. A fowl market was in the Poultry. Bread Street and Milk Street were devoted to the sale of those useful commodities. The curiously and picturesquely named Knightrider Street is most significant of all; for through it used to pass in procession the train of knights going to the joust. Rotten Row is said to derive its name from “rotteren” (to muster); but it is more likely to be a slang word expressive of the peculiar composition of the ground.
The large family of Ludgate, Bishopsgate, Cripplegate, Billingsgate, etc., all, of course, betoken the different City gates which stood in the localities. Billingsgate is said to be named after King Belin; Cripplegate after St. Giles, an abbot said to have written a work on palsy, and also venerated as the patron of lepers. It may be noted that the old statue of Queen Elizabeth which decorated Lud Gate is still to be seen in Fleet Street. Spitalfields was named after St. Mary Spital; Moorfields and Finsbury, or Fensbury, from the marshes; St. Bride, or St. Bridget, gave her name to Bridewell; indeed, a vast number of our streets have some such pious associations. It would take long to go through the full list of derivations; but these specimens will show how interesting and fruitful is the inquiry.
The naming of a street requires much tact, and is really a difficult office. Witness the clumsy suggestions and debates when Northumberland and Shaftesbury Avenues were formed. Thames Avenue or Thames Mall would have been better and more picturesque for the first, and Shakespeare Road for the second. The old “Paragons,” “Circuses,” “Crescents,” have a pleasant sound. In compliment to the great prose poet of Cockneydom, we ought surely to have a “Dickens Street,”—a good, sharp, well-sounding, and serviceable name.
THIS great collection really holds the first position among the galleries of Europe, not for the number of pictures, but for their choiceness and value. The building which contains the collection has been assumed to be rather a failure, and many a jest has been made upon what are called its “pepper casters,” an article which its cupolas suggest. Yet upon the whole it is a classical, well-proportioned building, with a fine, imposing façade. Of late years a new gallery has been added in the rear, whose Italian campanile rears itself awkwardly, and is inconsistent with the Grecian style of the rest. Sir Frederick Leighton has spoken with just severity of this incongruity. The new rooms are stately and lofty, united by imposing central halls, floridly decorated, contrasting oddly with the low and shabby chambers beside it. Still, the smaller area is more effective for the display of pictures; they are brought closer to the eye, are seen more comfortably, and there is the feeling of being in a private gallery. The small butbeautiful collection at The Hague has its peculiar charm from these conditions. Within the last few years the great entrance hall has been remodelled and treated sumptuously, laid out with flights of stairs, pillars of costly African and other marbles, profuse gilding and painting. But the effect is scarcely satisfactory: the pillars are thin, and ill proportioned to this work, and seem more ornamental than serviceable, while the complicated umbrella and stick arrangements seem to do violence to the natural construction of the building.
The Gallery owes much to its accomplished director, Sir F. Burton, who is an artist of the Academic school, with much fine taste and feeling, and power of drawing. The days when men were trained in the schools, and when studies of the human figure (on one of which Mulready would expend months) were labours of love, are unhappily passed away. To Sir F. Burton’s admirable judgment we owe the real development of the collection, and its almost universal character. If we might make an objection, it would be that there is almost a surfeit of works of the earlier Italian school of the Pre-Raphaelite time, and there is something monotonous in the innumerable altar-pieces and sacred pieces set off with richly gilt and carved architectural framings. On the other hand, it is admitted that the English school is imperfectly represented. At the same time nothing could be more difficult than to form a really representative gallery of English works, owing to the shiftings of taste and criticism. This can be seen by considering the once-admired Vernon collection, where figure all the “Augustus Eggs” and “Redgraves,” and which seem scarcely worthy of a place in a public gallery. At the Academy Exhibitions we find every school imitated—French, German, Dutch. Still it would not be difficult to apply some principles in the selection, and to define what might be considered a purely English character in landscape, portraits, orgenre.
A serious difficulty is what to do with the accepted bequests which for half a century or so have held possession. These keep their place by virtue of law and Acts of Parliament, and as they entered in company with works of real value, there would be an ungraciousness in rejecting them. The pigments of this era seem to have faded: the pictures are flat, stiff, and, in some cases, seem the work of amateurs. One instance of this “white elephant” sort of donation is the picture of Rembrandt’s “Night Watch,” said to be a copy of no startling merit, which is yet allowed a conspicuous place.
The visitor is assisted by guides and guide-books of all kinds; one, a full, reformed one, in two volumes, has been issued recently. I always think that a model guide-book, such as the eager but uninformed public would desire, has yet to be devised. The usual system is after this pattern: The name and number is given, then the painter and school, say, “The UmbrianSchool”—with the size of the picture in inches, a few lines about the painter, his birth and death, and to what “school” he succeeded; then a rather banal description of what the figures are doing—which the spectator can discover for himself without assistance. These points, such as size in inches, and the description, are, of course, valuable for the Waagens and other critical persons, but arecaviareto the visiting public. I venture to say that the questions every one puts to himself on seeing a “famous” picture are these: “Why is it that this work is so admired? What are the particular merits?” The effect is admittedly good and beautiful; but it seems so like many others that we have seen, excellent, pleasing; but it puzzles us to saywhyit exceeds in merit the others. How delightful, on the other hand, and improving is it, when it is our good fortune to be attended by some real critic and trained judge, who in a few words points out the merits, the contrast of colour, the drawing of that arm, the difficulty overcome in grouping in figures! Again, what isstyle? Corot, the French landscape painter, is deservedly admired, and the spectator, looking at his catalogue, will exclaim, “Oh! that is a Corot.” He sees, with wonder, a sort of marsh or fen with gloomy “furry”-looking trees. He is told of the enormous price this small work fetches in the market, and wonders again. It seems to him sketchy, blurred, and unfinished, perhaps meaningless, but itmustbe a great work from its price: he cannot puzzle it out, and he has to pass on to others. The critic, however, at his elbow, will draw him back and tell him, first, what the Corot theory was, viz., that nature has moods of humour, of feeling and passion, which can be noted, just as we note expression on the human countenance; that this often becomes so marked and absorbing that we do not observe mere details. The painter, who wished to seize the humour or expression, passes by all details of leaves, branches, etc., and even the outlines, so that the spectator, like the painter, will note only, say, the generalsadnessof the whole. This is roughly and, perhaps, broadly expressed, but it furnishes a sort of key. But we now look at our Corot with a different interest, and its meaning gradually grows upon us. So with the Dutch school. We pass from one to the other in the Peel collection, from Teniers and Van Steen to De Hooge, with a sense of sameness. There are the usual “Boors” and “Vrows” carousing or dancing; or there are “Interiors” by De Hooge; or Hobbema, with his alleys and trees, all great, clever, finished minutely, and curious. But we have no key, and there is a mystery beyond us. Here, again, we should reflect that this “style” is due to the conditions of climate and character. Dutch skies are sad and sombre, the country flat and bare, the long avenues of trees add to the mournful feeling; the interiors are dark. There is a wonderful, much-admired Hobbema, here a “grand piece,” as it is called; an alley of long bare trees stretching away from thespectator, a landscape spreading away beyond. The spectator as he gazes will feel a curious sense of melancholy, owing to the flat wastes, the trunks exposed to the sweeping winds, the earth redeemed by stern toil from the sea, the feeling of isolation, with a suggestion of the indomitable Dutch character, which has battled successfully for centuries with the ocean, and which finds a relief in scenes of carousal. They have no mountains or valleys, or woods to draw from. The houses in the cities are narrow, their rooms small and dark; hence everything is looked at in miniature; hence, too, the laborious finish. Hence, too, plenty of dark corners and shadows. All which explains Rembrandt’s traditional effects, his faces emerging from dark backgrounds. Hence, too, the costume of the Dutch portrait, with its white collar and black jerkin. In the small dark rooms, panelled with dark oak, the light falls only on the face; rich-coloured clothes would lose their lustre. So with De Hooge’s picture of the “Entrance to a Dutch Yard,” where there is a welcome but unexpected stream of light, and which is treated as light that enters into a dark place.
I have often thought, too, how interesting it would be if there were some critics to explain the treatment and manipulation adopted by different painters! Why did Gainsborough, for instance, deal in exquisite streaky greens and translucent blues; how is it that his faces are so delicate and tender? The fact is, different painters see things with different eyes, and the figure presents itself differently. One will note only the expression as worthy of representation, another the colours of the face, another will be struck by the attitude, the richness of the dress, etc. Denner saw nothing but lines and wrinkles. It is with painting exactly as it is with authorship. One will relate a fact exactly as it occurred, another in newspaper style, another with touches of character; another has a certain charm of description; yet another is poetical.
To give a more particular illustration of how enjoyment would be increased by some such critical aid as this, let us pause a moment before this fine full-length portrait of Lewis, the actor, which hangs in the vestibule of the hall—a smiling figure in a sort of Spanish dress. It is the character of “The Marquis” in “The Midnight Hour,” and is painted by Sir Martin Shee, erst President of the Academy. There is something effective and pleasing about the picture, but most persons content themselves with a glance and pass on. Now, suppose we inform him that Lewis was a comedian of the old “airy” school, was noted for his elegant style of representing people of rank—that is to say, personages gay and witty, without condescension—carrying themselves through difficult situations without embarrassment, and making love in a very irresistible way. Shee had seen Lewis many times on the stage, and knew himau bout des ongles; these gifts were present to him; so, selecting this favourite character, heembodied here an epitome of all its attractions. With these facts in view, we look again at the picture, and how different it appears! There is the delightful expression, half rallying, half of enjoyment, a general refinement, with a graceful carriage—in short, a regular bit of comedy is going on before us.
In some of the great “Gallery” pictures—such as Sebastian del Piombo’s “Raising of Lazarus”—the assistance of judicious criticism is really essential. We must be instructed how and why to admire. Otherwise, as in other kindred instances, such as with pictures of the Caraccis, we see only a number of Scriptural figures in robes, blue or scarlet, grouped together; no doubt large, dignified, impressive, but not by any means interesting. There is a general conventionality. Yet this “Raising of Lazarus” has been criticised by Hazlitt, Haydon, and others in a very interesting way, and our catalogues of the future might profitably have these inserted. Dr. Waagen thought this picture the most important of the Italian school that England possesses. He adds that the “first glance would teach us that the figure of Lazarus was drawn, though not painted, by Michael Angelo.” The figure of our Saviour he praises for its nobility, and “in Lazarus the transition from death to life is expressed with wonderful fidelity. In the other figures gratitude, astonishment, conviction, doubt are to be traced.” I fear there are few of the thousands passing who would gather this or anything from the first glance, or note any of these things.
There is one picture considered the cynosure of the whole, on account of the vast price (some £70,000) given for it—the Ansidei Raphael. Of this we might venture to say that the effect scarcely corresponds to the outlay; or rather, that were it placed among the other Italian estimated pictures, and divested of its history, it would not probably attract much notice. This may seem heretical, but I am confident it is true. With the critical, of course, it is different, though I fancy it would be a difficult task to give a nice, accurate, and judicial appreciation of its points of attraction, going beyond mere phrases of praise. I confess, if choice were offered, I would prefer the more “taking” Soult Murillo in the Louvre.PaceSir Frederick Burton, it seems also to suffer from the heavy mass which does duty as frame—the excessive gilding impairs the colours, and it is constructed with a sort of basement which stands “in the air” unsupported, which seems to imply that it ought to be on a bracket or altar.
A crying blemish to the collection is the room full of fantastic pictures, so called, the terrible legacy which Turner bequeathed to the nation. These grotesques have neither form nor meaning, and seem to be mad, wild caprices. There is nothing to match them in existence, and no gallery, private or public, would tolerate them. Some are nothing but streaks and smears—yellows and blues utterly amorphous; yet admirers will protest thatthere is some deep-seated “no meaning” mystery beneath, which study and sympathy will reveal. Some arrangement by Act of Parliament or otherwise should be made for disposing of these performances, which we have heard again and again excite the derision of the foreigner as “polissonneries.” The serious and responsible works of Turner are here, and excite admiration: but these, it is well known, were the eccentricities of his dotage. Some of his large grand pieces are truly fine, such as “The Sea Fight” and the beautiful Italian landscape placed as a pendant to the well-known Claude, though it is easy to note that the exquisitely sultry luminousness of the French painter cannot be approached, Turner’s atmosphere, from the very contrast, being somewhat thick and heavy. Any one who goes from picture to picture of Turner’s, those, I mean, of his sane manner, with care and regularity, will be lost in wonder at the variety of his styles, and will conclude that he could “do anything.” The mistake of his later days was his attempt to simulate with colours atmospheric tones and effects, such as the “actual sense of effulgence” in the sun when we attempt to look straight at it, or the glare from a passing train, or a steamer showing lights and letting off steam.
Perhaps the truest “painter” of the modern English school who could be called a master, and whose works would stand the test of criticism, is Wilkie. No praise could do justice to that masterpiece, “The Blind Fiddler,” with its minutely delicate handling of faces and hands, yet offering a grand breadth of style. The beautiful limpid colouring, the firmness, yet delicacy, of the touch, the pleasant, quiet, unforced humour of the scene—akin to that of Goldsmith—the brilliancy and largeness of treatment, are perfectly miraculous in a youth little more than twenty. Neither Mieris nor Meissonier have works that can be classed with this gem, which, by-the-way, would gain by being hung higher. His picture of “The Beadle” leading away the Mountebanks and their Dancing Dogs, with figures brilliantly and exquisitely finished, is not, however, his best specimen. We should note the contrast with his well-known “Knox Preaching,” which seems the work of a different hand. Many would be puzzled at this; but art critics know that Wilkie altered his style completely after a visit to Spain, and affected a rich, juicy, full-coloured tone, even adopting a large unfinished “streaky” manner. In this contrasting of style we may profitably turn for comparison to a picture truly unique, of which, as Lamb says, “One species is the genus,” and which may be coveted by any gallery, that is, the famous “Treaty of Munster,” by Terburg, a small cabinet picture, the gift of a private person. This extraordinary little masterpiece is worth an hour’s study, and illustrates all the principles of painting. There are some fifty or sixty figures, and the force, dramatic expression, and feeling of the whole is surprising. Every minute face is distinct, and leaves the air of perfectfinish; yet, if we look closely, we shall see the workmanship is rough and bold. Mr. Ruskin has happily illustrated this valuable principle by a minute vignette of Turner’s, which decorates his “Italy.” It represents the marvellous windows and elaborate details of the Ducal palace in Venice, all within a couple of inches; yet, if we take a magnifying glass, we shall find that none of the objects represented are actually drawn. There are only a number of dots and touches, and yet the effect of the relief, details, and carvings is perfectly conveyed. On the other hand, had the details been actuallydrawnon so small a scale, these details would at a distance have failed to convey the idea intended. Here is one of the secrets of largeness of style. Meissonier has much in common with Terburg. Our fashionable modern painters have little idea of relative values. They copy all before them with the accuracy of a photograph.
A little study of one who is the glory of this Gallery, viz. Constable, will illustrate this better. A landscape painter may copy carefully and minutely a spreading cornfield, with reapers at work and effects of sunlight, but, as was said in the case of Corot, there is a mystery in landscape which only genius can discover. This is not to be interpreted as Corot found it was, by wholesale sacrifice of details, but by studying the art of making these contribute to the general effect. The really great painter seems to work in this way: he sees or discovers an “effect”; it becomes an inspiration, it takes possession of him, and it imprints itself vividly on his pictorial memory. He notes the same effect under other conditions, and so the idea becomes generalized. Thus a great marine painter, on an occasion, watches the form of waves in a storm, or a peculiar effect of light. As to mere mechanical painting, that becomes, or should become, as the language he speaks; neither does he require the object or model to be before him to paint from, save by way of suggestion or correction. It is to be suspected that the average modern painter does not work on these principles. Hecopieseverything from without, and not from within. The great painter who has found inspiration in his landscape will only copy so far as to ensure topographical correctness, but his main purpose is to produce the general effect or inspiration which is imprinted on his memory. Such is the meaning of the impression left by Constable’s work. The trees, pastures, figures, are all subsidiary to thetoneof the whole, the grand feeling of open air which spreads beyond the narrow, contracted limits of the frame. Ashefelt the largeness, so is the sense of largeness produced in the spectator. One well-known picture will illustrate this more effectively.
Like the human face, the cathedral has its cast of expression, a kind of soft tenderness, or placid, quiet solitariness, wholly different from the air of perky sharpness and strutting detail which photographs present. Turning to the “Salisbury Cathedral” of this painter anyonethat has seen the original will recognize how he caught the poetry, the contrast of the grey building with the green sward of the close, and the deep tone of the trees, and the beautiful significance of the spire, which seems almost to be a natural product of the landscape. These spires, indeed, always seem to give a different sort of interpretation to the place in which they stand; and every person of sensibility will own to different impressions as he passes on the railway by Canterbury, Peterborough, or Ely. In the case of the Salisbury spire there is a certain sharpness which contrasts with the dark and angry cloud behind, and gives an air of menace and hostility.
To take another illustration. There are photographs and engravings in plenty of the picturesque Dover Harbour, with its cliffs and castle. Many who have seen the place in its various moods have wished for some reminder, and may have found the traditional sketches of commerce accurate enough, but insufficient to restore the old charm. As the traveller returning from France approaches, he notes the pyramidal character, the junction and blending of the castle with the clouds behind it, the contrast of the glaring white cliffs with the grey of the sea; there is, besides, the grand air of large security and shelter afforded for centuries back. Now, there is a picture by Turner—in which all these complex ideas are abundantly suggested; he has caught the whole tone of the place, dealing with the skies above and the waters below, quite as elaborately as with the town and harbour; indeed, these are subsidiary. In this way it is true a great artist becomes an interpreter, as well as a painter, of Nature.
It is difficult not to feel a sort of enthusiasm and deep admiration when standing before these grand works of Constable. There is a breadth and solidity, a massiveness, about his style and treatment. The secret might be the sense of dignity, the imparting of agrand personalityto the trees, the grass, the water, and everything represented. As we look, the details seem to grow and be enriched. It is not surprising to learn that the introduction of one of his pieces into France was the foundation of the school for landscape in that country. The Gallery is well furnished with other masterpieces of his, and the visitor will study them with delight. If we look at the “Flatford,” or the “Haywain,” we shall see and recognize the power, the mixture of emotions suggested, the grand tranquillity of the country, the variety, the sense of distance, and, as we said, the air ofstate; as for the colour, its depth and richness are not even approached in our day.
To turn to another of our English masters, it must be said that Landseer was hardly a “painter” in a strict sense. He really only took portraits of animals—and of particular animals. A “painter” would generalize more, and in this view Herring’s horses are more pleasing, and exhibit the animals in their relation to surrounding objects. Of course, in producing fur, hair, etc., Landseer is unequalled. This can be further illustrated by a paintinghere of Morland’s, who is usually associated with certain vulgar subjects, such as pigs, coarse hinds, and the like, masterly in their way. This portrays a heavy cart-horse and pony entering their stable. The sort of living interest infused is extraordinary, with the languid, helpless expectancy of the pair, the general tone of the stable. We would place it above anything Landseer has done. This will be seen if we compare this stable scene of Morland’s with the well-known “Horse-shoeing,” which has quite an artificial air. Among the finest Landseers are, no doubt, the “Newfoundland Dog” and the capital, vigorously-painted creature who personates Alexander in the visit to Diogenes. In his latter works he became rather tame and insipid in his colour and touch, as we can see by turning to “Peace and War.”
Thirty or forty years ago among the chief attractions of the Academy were pictures by Ward, O’Neil, Crowe, Mrs. Ward, Frith, and others. Such were “James II. receiving the News of the Arrival of William,” “The South Sea Bubble,” the “Derby Day,” and “The Railway Station.”
Leslie, Maclise, Eastlake, Ward, and many more have all fallen considerably in public esteem. Many years ago there was a general exhibition of Leslie’s works, and it was curious to see how the assemblage revealed his defects—the “chalkiness” of his white, his thin colour, his general stiffness. This was the result of the Academic school, when drawing was much insisted upon. Nowadays, when the French imitative system is in vogue, a hard pure outline, it is contended, is not in nature. The figure is softened or blended with the background according to experience.
There are some pictures at which we look with astonishment; the gaudy, glaring figures all dressed in variegated fashion and crowded together. It may be said these are like “Tableaux Vivants,” and painted, it might be, from grouped figures. It will be noted that all are in the light, and there are no shadows; indeed, no point of view conceivable could take in so many objects at a time. There is little or no “composition,” and the laws of Academic arrangement seem to be set aside. These pictures, admired, gravely discussed by the critics, have long since found their legitimate place. We have, indeed, only one purely Academic painter—the President of the Royal Academy—who has been trained in the “schools,” and whose work is always elegant, graceful, and honest. If he has to present a draped figure with an arm exposed, the arm and hand are truly “drawn.” There is an exquisite contour exhibited which pleases the eye; the drapery falls not merely in natural, but airy folds, while the tints are of a delicate harmony. There is, in short, composition, and we turn away refreshed. Not so much could be said of some of our popular portrait painters, whose hands are not outlined, but blurred, though dashing, and whose drawing is misty.
Another painter once in high repute, and scarcely thought of now, was Etty, assumed to be the most gorgeous colourist of his day. We look nowat his nude nymphs sailing in boats, and wonder a little at this reputation, though there are plenty of tints of lake, and rich black tresses, and cobalt. Somehow these works now seem heavy, and not so brilliant. Would we seek a genuine colourist, let us turn to this little cabinet Bonnington, who has left but few examples, but whose works are precious and much esteemed in Paris. Another rare master of this kind is Muller, of whom there are few specimens. These small cabinet pictures, a few inches square, produce extraordinary effects of force and brilliancy, and gorgeous colour.
To enumerate the attractions of this great collection would, it need hardly be said, take long, but one must speak of the famous “Chapeau de Poil” of Rubens (“The Felt Hat,” not, as it is vulgarly known, “The Chapeau de Paille”). As any one can see for himself, there is nostrawhat in the case. These, with the wonderfully powerful and abundant Rembrandts, the “Sassoferrato” (blue-hooded) head, the Murillos, the Reynolds and Gainsborough portraits, the grand Constables, the Turners, the Claudes, the great Rubens landscape, the Hogarth series, the Wilkies, Landseers, Moronis, Botticellis and Bordones may be considered the “stock pieces” of the place. Frith’s “Derby Day,” and Rosa Bonheur’s well-known “Horse Fair,” and the room full of Landseers, furnish the holiday starers with delight. Rosa has, however, “gone down” somewhat in the estimation of connoisseurs, and her horses and her style of painting do not seem quite so marvellous nor so wonderful as they did originally: her colouring is somewhat sketchy. There are other artists of later date concerning whom we must also revise our judgments.
Our own Sir Joshua is here handsomely and abundantly represented. The charm of this great painter is extraordinary; the grace, “distinction,” and variety of his treatment are no less remarkable. “Lord Heathfield” exhibits robust serenity with the rugged good-humoured face, and the fine generous scarlet of his coat. The variety of Reynolds’ attitudes, considering his countless sitters, is truly astonishing. One of his most powerful efforts is the well-known head of Dr. Johnson, in the Peel Collection. Here should be noted the suggestion of suffering, so delicately conveyed, the curious look of expectancy, the air of softness and even gentleness, infused into the rough lineaments. Our moderns make their sitters stare from their frames, and every one says “How like!”
Gainsborough is a painter in whose praise one is tempted to grow wanton. We are often inclined to wonder where he found the sea-green, cobalt blue streaks. His faces are worthy of study. As will be seen, he conveys the idea perfectly of transparency of skin, that is, we see the colour below,throughthe upper cuticle. The large picture of the Baillie family in the vestibule is one of his finest works. There is the bold firmness of touch, a rich stroke, and a certain brilliancy. This is the more astonishing, as inhis larger pictures and portraits there is often an unpleasing coarseness. The term “master” may be certainly applied to him, as it may be to Reynolds, Gainsborough, Wilkie, Constable, Morland, perhaps Wilson, and a few more. Lawrence was a portrait painter, not a master.
No painter is more accepted on account of his rank and prestige than Rembrandt, and the collection is singularly strong in his works. There is a sort of conventional idea of what a Rembrandt should be—a yellow old man or woman looking out of a dark background. Yet few think how luminous is his work. Thus, the old Vrow in the ruff is an amazing specimen of his power; and it is worth while looking closely into the face to see the vigorous fashion in which the strokes are dealt out, the paint being literally plastered on, but with profoundest method. For we have of course moderns who can lay on their paint as with a trowel, thus assuming a vigour they do not possess. Each of his strokes have a meaning, and it was not his intention to give an air of raised surface. No one has approached him in the rich tone of hisgoldentints.
The great Italian portraits here—the Moronis, Pordonones and others—we have to grow acquainted and intimate with, to discover their power. The “Tailor” of the first has been often praised for its expression and dignity. The attitude is delightfully significant of his calling, without, however, the least vulgar emphasis; so with that of the lawyer. We learn in these that grace and propriety belong to all castes and conditions. The costumes enter largely into the expression. When will our moderns recognize the fact that a portrait must beintellectual, both in the painter’s and in the sitter’s share? At the Academy exhibitions we see Mayors, City men, Parliamentarians, and others, whom nature has furnished with parts of a low money-getting type, and whom our artists faithfully portray in dignified attitude and recognizable shape. The sitter has done his best to look stately and “like a gentleman.” Yet this isnothis likeness. But were we to see this man in his counting-house with his clerks at a crisis, we should find him becoming animated, ready, resolute, his features light up, and the low vulgarity disappears. Your Moronis and others have found out this secret.
There are some great canvases of Paolo Veronese in the large room: “Alexander receiving the Family of Darius,” and others; but the visitor turns from their comparatively dull tones with a little disappointment. Any one who has seen the grand and brilliant “Marriage of Cana,” in the Louvre, is spoiled for future judgment. That superb and brilliantly animated scene seems to be the work of another master.
I could linger longer on these interesting themes, and have done little more than touch on some of the great masterpieces here collected. But it is not vanity to say that the visitor who has studied principles akin to what we have been imperfectly setting out, will find a new, unsuspected enjoyment in a visit to a Picture Gallery.
IT is curious that most of the great London architects should have come from Scotland. Among these the most distinguished are Chambers, the designer of Somerset House, Campbell, Rennie, Gibbs, and the Brothers Adam. All these have left their mark upon the great city. The Barry family were Irish; Pugin and Vanbrugh of foreign extraction; while Inigo Jones was a Welshman. Wren, however, outweighs the rest, and he was an Englishman.
Vanbrugh was an interesting character, and his scattered works abound in London and its suburbs. This brilliant man has scarcely obtained the full credit he deserves for his numerous and versatile gifts, for he adorned no less than five professions. He was soldier, dramatist, and manager; an architect and a herald to boot: to say nothing of his being a wit and a poet. His plays, “The Relapse,” “The Confederacy,” “The Provok’d Wife,” and “The Provok’d Husband” are among the works that no theatrical gentleman’s library should be without. His great mansions at Blenheim and Castle Howard are monuments of his skill, and his fables were considered by Pope to be superior to those of La Fontaine. In soldiering and management he was not so successful, though he was persuasive enough to obtain from the nobility and gentry £30,000 with which to build an opera-house in the Haymarket on the exact spot where Her Majesty’s Theatre now stands. When this theatre was finished hardly a word could be heard, and the voices of the actors had the effect of low undulating murmurings. The object of the designer, however, was to furnish an interior for both music and Italian opera; and it would pass the wit of our Phippses and Emdens to supply a building which would be equally suited for acting and singing.
It seems to be the fate of every architect of eminence who is favoured with a “commission” for some vast public building to suffer hardship and sordid treatment at the hands of the authorities. It was so with Wren, Barry, Street, and above all with Vanbrugh, who had to go to law with theMarlboroughs to obtain his fees. He was himself sued by the contractors and workmen, who could obtain no money from either the family or Government. The story of this persecution is to be found in the curious Vanbrugh papers. More curious is it to discover, as the writer did lately, that there is still standing in London his old mansion, the very first attempt he made, which (though dilapidated enough) seems still hale, stout, and strong. When it became known, about the year 1702, that the wit and dramatist had turned architect and had actually built himself a mansion in Whitehall, it became the subject of much ridicule; and Dr. Swift was merry on the shape and peculiarity of the new building.